


Make Your Heart Slow

by alexenglish



Series: Roman Candle Hearts [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Childhood Friends, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M, Open Relationships, Polyamory, Queer Themes, Undecided Relationship(s), background Derek Hale/Scott McCall, background Scott McCall/Stiles Stilinski - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-05-06 01:59:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5398565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexenglish/pseuds/alexenglish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles remembers being 15 and realizing for the first time that the way Derek made him feel - fenetic with energy and bursting at the seams - was something more than, something Stiles didn’t have a name for. Now, it feels like love, but even on a good day Stiles isn’t really sure what that means when he applies that to someone who’s not Scott.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make Your Heart Slow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lonniek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonniek/gifts).



> Lonnie needed a pick-me-up, hope this helps ♡  
> Unbeta'd because I'm trash.
> 
> See end notes for a ramble about Stiles and Derek's relationship with Scott.

“I’m done with this pursuit of holy unmatrimony,” Stiles says, leaning his head back against the arm of the couch. He wiggles his toes into Derek’s thigh, poking him for absolutely no reason except to be annoying, to convey his boredom. Derek leans sideways and sticks his elbow straight into the top of Stiles’ foot and leans his weight down, fingers still moving rapidly over the Xbox controller. “Ow, ow, uncle, fuck.”

“You mean _un_ holy unmatrimony,” Derek says, moving back up. On screen, his character falls down a ravine and he takes the re-gen time to shove Stiles’ legs off the couch and thwack him with a pillow. Stiles ignores him in favor of fishing out his phone, buzzing enthusiastically in his pocket. It’s Snapchat. “There is nothing holy about you trying so hard to get laid.”

“Dude, seriously?” Stiles asks, only half paying attention. Scott’s snapping a campus tour of the University of Arizona, aka the piece of shit school he abandoned them for because it had a “killer medical program” and offered him a full-ride scholarship. All Stiles can tell from the snaps is that it’s too sunny to survive and there’s more cacti than people. 

Stiles misses Scott so much he gets nauseous just thinking about it. He can’t blame Scott for wanting to take the scholarship, it’s the best opportunity he’s going to get, but it’s like Stiles is missing a limb now that Scott is gone. There’s a hole in his life, and no amount of tacos or tequila has been able to fill it. It’s making him petulant.

“Seriously what, Stiles?” Derek asks, not looking away from the television screen. When Stiles looks up, the afternoon light is shining on Derek’s face making him look like a painting brought to life. The way the shadows play deeply in the hollow of his throat and over his collar, his eyes translucent jade and captivating, even with their attention turned away from Stiles. The sight makes Stiles’ heart clench in his chest, hands suddenly tingling with nerves. 

In moments like these, Stiles remembers being 15 and realizing for the first time that the way Derek made him feel - fenetic with energy and bursting at the seams - was something _more than_ , something Stiles didn’t have a name for. Now, it feels like love, but even on a good day Stiles isn’t really sure what that means when he applies it to someone who’s not Scott.

Stiles snaps Scott back a picture of Derek: ‘ _send help_ ’. 

Scott snaps back with a picture of his crotch: ‘ _tap that. I would if I could._ ’

“Seriously, you think I have to try hard to get laid?” Stiles asks, throwing a piece of trash at Derek’s head, trying to ignore Scott’s reply. “I’m personally offended by that.”

“You’re right,” Derek says, rolling his eyes and pausing the game. He shifts his body so he’s facing Stiles, leaning back into the couch. It doesn’t help with Stiles’ fluttering pulse. Especially the way Derek’s dark jeans hug his thighs, how the afternoon light cuts over his torso, accenting him artistically. The whole picture makes Stiles’ throat dry, the familiar feeling of attraction burning through him. 

“You can totally get laid, you just have impossibly high standards.”

“Who even told you that?” Stiles demands, hotly, reaching around for something else to throw at Derek. A pillow hits his face before he even finds anything; he huffs and drags it down, holding it to his chest while Derek smiles smugly at him. “It was Scott wasn’t it?” 

Scott is useful because he cycles news through the three of them. On most occasions, Stiles will tell Scott something and rely on him to relay it to Derek. Either because he forgets or doesn’t want to repeat himself. It’s not a surprise that Scott would tell Derek this information, but for some reason, it makes Stiles feel vulnerable, like the information is too personal. It’s a foreign feeling. Stiles is the definition of TMI. 

Spending more and more time with Derek alone is pushing his feelings to the forefront. Without Scott as a buffer, it’s harder to repress the ways in which he wants Derek. When Scott is with them, it’s easy to deflect. When they’re alone, all Stiles can think about is showing Derek how he feels. 

They’re a complicated bunch of people with complicated feelings. It’s not something Stiles can deny. Scott and Stiles have been sleeping together since they discovered what their dicks were, but Scott is a strictly ‘no romo’ sort of aromantic. As much as Stiles is devastatingly in love with Scott, they just have sex. Scott knows Stiles is head over heels for him, they’ve talked about it and it’s fine, but Derek is another issue altogether.

“I’m going to murder him,” Stiles says with a groan, when Derek’s shoulder jumps up in a shrug, all the confirmation he needs.

“So, why are you being picky all of a sudden?” Derek asks, putting the controller down completely, giving Stiles all of his attention. There’s enough action-reaction between them that Stiles can fall back into habitual arguing and teasing without thinking about it. 12 years of learned behavior keeps him from sinking into the tailspin that is his crush on Derek. 7 years strong and still going. It’s something that he manages to ignore, but it hard in moments like these; with Stiles lying in the sunspot on Derek’s couch, defeated; wishing he could pull Derek closer. 

Subconsciously, he knows that he’s stopping himself from forming deeper bonds with people he’s been sleeping with, because he’s already in love with two people. One of which he’ll never have a romantic relationship with, and the other who’s a _possibility_ , but -- 

Derek’s demisexual, while Stiles is sketchy on the details about his feelings for Scott, they're enough that Derek’s sexually attracted to, and comfortable sleeping with him. Regularly. Or he did, before Scott abandoned them. It worked for them, and it never made Stiles jealous, not really. He just _wanted_ , and Derek has never been sexually attracted to Stiles. Stiles was too much a chickenshit to ask about romantic attraction, knew he would be crushed if Derek answered with anything less than a positive. 

Like Stiles said, they’re a complicated batch of individuals.

“I’m tired of hooking up,” Stiles says, with a shrug, trying to ignore the feeling that this is too vulnerable for a Stiles and Derek interaction. Stiles does vulnerable with Scott. Stiles and Derek don’t do vulnerable, they argue and shit talk and get fucked up. They don’t talk about their feelings. 

“Was Mike not good enough for you?” Derek teases, with half a smile. “Or Jessica or Nick or Chris or --”

“Okay, I get it,” Stiles says, laughing out loud, embarrassed. His list of hook ups is a lot longer than Derek’s. That’s because he has no real interest in getting attached. Which, he lets people know right off the bat. He isn’t an asshole when it comes to _that_ kind of thing. Sex is whole other level of vulnerability, regardless of _feelings_.

“I’m worried about you, Stiles,” Derek says, punching him the leg. Stiles kicks him in retaliation, but it doesn’t land. Instead, Derek’s hands clamp down around his ankles and he shimmies over, sitting on Stiles’ legs.

“Like hell you are,” Stiles grunts, sitting up, trying to wiggle free. Derek is dead weight, though, pressing in down. Even his most mighty wiggles fall short. “Ugh, you’re so _huge_ \--”

“So muscular and manly?”

“You’re gross, please get out of here,” Stiles says, shoving at him. Derek goes easily, teasing smile melting into something else, something thoughtful that Stiles isn’t sure he likes the look of. 

It’s Derek’s ‘I want to talk about things’ face. When Stiles sees it, he usually directs Derek to Scott. It’s hard to allow himself to Be There for Derek. It turns into a selfish battle of trying to determine whether or not he should tell Derek his feelings for him, even in the most irrelevant circumstances. 

Trouble at home with Laura or Cora? Tell Derek about the crush. Issues with the new boss at work? Tell Derek about the crush. Bitching about school? Or Scott? Or any of their friends? Tell him, tell him, _tell him_. 

So, Stiles deflects and brushes it off, pretends that he really doesn’t care about most things. It’s better than Derek knowing he cares about _everything_. At least, that’s what Stiles tells himself. It’s the reason why they’re not as close as Stiles and Scott are or Scott and Derek are. Stiles has to hold himself back, or he would have blown his cover years ago. 

It shouldn’t be this complicated, considering they’re all so incestuous about their sex and feelings _anyway_ , but it is. It really is.

“So, what, you’re tired of hooking up,” Derek says, leaning back. He moved off Stiles, but he didn’t move out of his space. They’re pressed together at the knees, angled towards each other. It makes Stiles feel electric, perception tilting so that Derek is at the center of his focus. He feels distinctly unbalanced, dangling in a space that Derek will define until they stop touching.

“I guess,” Stiles says, shoulders jumping in dismissal. It’s out of character for him, he knows. Hook-ups are pretty much how he operates, especially since high school. Defining his sexuality was hard enough, being in love with Scott was enough, and then the feelings for Derek started and he’s been a mess ever since. He had Scott to vent to, but it was rough and Stiles got into the habit of distracting himself through unattached orgasms. 4 years post-high-school-graduation, and Stiles is still stuck in that trap. 

“I want something more. Something like,” Stiles wiggles his fingers around, trying to find the words. 

“Like someone who knows your favorite movie and can order for you at Taco Bell?” Derek prompts. Stiles nods, listless, as Derek goes on: “Someone who knows that you haven’t seen every Star Wars movie, even though you give Scott shit for it. Or that you drink all the milk out of your cereal halfway through eating it because you’re impatient and don’t want your cereal to get soggy.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, scrubbing his hands through his hair. 

Someone like _Derek_ who knows all those things and more: like the time Stiles egged Scott’s house sophomore year for taking Lydia to the dance, and helped him cover it up by blaming Jackson and Danny; who knows that Stiles will under no circumstances eat tomatoes; who knows that Stiles can go three full days without sleep because they both stayed up for that long on a post-finals video gaming binge last year with Scott.

“I want someone who gets me or sticks around after we fuck or --"

“You want something romantic,” Derek says. When Stiles looks up, he expects a smirk on Derek’s lips. Something cocky and knowing, teasing. Instead, when Stiles meets his eyes, his expression is open, vulnerable. Similar to the expression he had on his face when he approached Scott and Stiles for the first time when they were playing by the river.

Everyone knew who Derek was because everyone knew who the Hales were. Most of them died in a fire and Laura Hale was the main caretaker for three of her siblings, all under the age of 13. Derek, wide-eyed and vulnerable, asking Stiles and Scott if he could play with them. It was Stiles’ first instinct to say _no_. Scott was his best friend and he was Scott’s and they didn’t have room for a third best friend. It was Scott, though, who grinned wide and didn’t hesitate to say yes. It was for the best, Stiles can’t imagine life without Derek now, but at the time, he was _pissed_. 

There’s the same look on his face now. It strikes Stiles as weird that so much time has passed, but it’s nothing has changed, especially not his eyes. Most of all, he doesn’t understand _why_ Derek is looking at him like that. It’s so uncharacteristic of him to direct that face at Stiles. It feels like a question, but Stiles doesn’t know how to interpret that so he swallows and looks away, something slithering into his stomach that’s not completely unpleasant. 

“I guess,” Stiles says, trying for a shrug, but he doesn’t sound convincing to his own ears. It’s definitely not enough to fool Derek, who’s spent every second he’s known Stiles analyzing Stiles’ actions and reactions. 

Derek says, “we should have sex.”

“What?” Stiles demands, voice going high. “You -- _What_?”

“We should have sex,” Derek repeats, eyes intent on Stiles’ face. Stiles can’t look away, as much as he wants to, as much as his face is burning and his heart is galloping in his chest. They don’t say anything for a while, staring at each other. The tension mounts between between them, until Stiles feels like squirming from how thick the air is. He can tell Derek wants to say something else, pensive expression on his face, but he’s waiting for Stiles’ reaction. 

“What?” Stiles demands again, voice high and tight, mind still racing. There’s too much to consider. Derek can’t just throw something like that out in the open and expect Stiles to react well. It’s not that Stiles is reacting _poorly_. If anything, they’re tipping closer, as if Derek’s suggestion has pulled Stiles further into his gravity. 

“Meaningful,” Derek says, slowly, gesturing between the two of them. Stiles is so close he can see the ring of dark blue around the outside of Derek’s iris, lightening towards the middle before it darkens again; eyelashes thick and not-quite-brown in this lighting. There’s certain looseness to his face that Stiles reads as nearly incredulous. Stiles really doesn’t understand that look. 

“You don’t want to sleep with me,” Stiles says, reeling away, realizing how close he really is. Close enough that they’re almost in each other’s laps, that if Stiles braced himself to stay up, he would have his hands on top of Derek’s thighs. “I asked you last year to have a threesome with Scott and I, and you said you weren’t sexually attracted to me.”

Derek ducks his head, looks embarrassed. 

“That changed,” he says simply, but he doesn’t elaborate.

Maybe it’s because they spend most of their time together now that Scott’s gone, but it’s video games and eating and Skyping. It’s moving easily in each other’s space, talking candidly, wrestling, and buzzing Stiles’ hair in Derek’s bathroom, family dinners. Things that they been doing for over a decade, but are more now that Scott isn’t there. Things that qualify as close enough for Derek to form an _attachment_ to Stiles. The kind that’s _significant_ for him --

Stiles swallows thickly. Best friends is a loaded word.

“We haven’t even kissed,” Stiles says, because Derek hasn’t said anything, all he’s doing is watching Stiles, assessing. There’s a teasing smile on his lips, eyes soft. Stiles is _so fucked_. He recognizes that look on Derek’s face. It’s a demanding, come-hither expression that he aims at people he _wants_ to kiss. Scott, namely. Stiles is not used to it being aimed at him.

“Then kiss me,” Derek says. They’re even closer now and Stiles is so surprised to hear it he almost drops forward, heart stalling up in his chest like a bad engine. His hands fall to brace himself on Derek’s lap, landing where he knew they would, and when he looks up, Derek is _right there_. His breath caresses Stiles’ cheek and he -- 

Stiles doesn’t even realize that he’s moving until his hands are on Derek’s arms, clenching. They stare at each other. Stiles takes in the sharp planes of Derek’s face, so familiar and consistent in his life. He knows things will change, if they do this --

Stiles presses their lips together.

Scott’s parents got divorced when they were 13. Derek was 15, mad at the world, and told Scott to suck it up. That at least he had parents. That it was better than being an orphan and if Scott couldn’t deal with it, then he didn’t _deserve_ parents. They never got to the root of Derek’s motivations for saying that. One minute, Scott was babbling defenses and the next Stiles was swinging wide, aimed at Derek’s face.

Stiles won’t ever forget how it felt when he realized what he was doing, that he was about to punch Derek _in his face_. Derek moved, just enough that Stiles’ knuckles grazed his cheekbone, off-center and stinging. It feels like that at first, like he did it wrong. Their lips bump and Stiles can feel their teeth hit. It’s off kilter, their noses mushing. 

Derek tilts his head and their lips align and _oh_.

After Stiles hit Derek in the face, Derek retaliated immediately by punching Stiles in the solar plexus and winding him. 

When they kiss properly, it feels like _that_. Like all of the air in Stiles’ lungs is pushed up and out, diaphragm constricting in an attempt to guard his body from an assault. Only he doesn’t have to struggle to breathe, he just has to exhale a moan and push forward so that he’s pressing Derek back and climbing onto his lap. 

It’s like he can’t help it, drawn closer. Derek takes it in stride, big hands sliding under Stiles’ shirt, resting midback. The skin-to-skin sensation makes Stiles sag against Derek, head swimming like he’s about to drown, nerves singing. It’s easy to imagine staying on Derek’s lap the rest of the day, trading lazy kisses and touches, testing the waters. 

Until Derek’s hands tighten just above his hips. The touch feels desperate, needy, wanting, as if Derek is clinging to him. It brings his attention to the hard line of Derek’s dick under him, the subtle way Derek rocks up as if he can’t help it. It makes something feel frantic in Stiles’ chest, that feeling that he tries to ignore brought to the forefront. 

Stiles rocks against Derek experimentally, so that Derek’s dick rubs just under his own. Both of their mouths drop open and Stiles knows that he’s not imagining the way Derek moans and thrusts up against him. 

“We should --” Stiles starts, gasping when Derek drags his lips across Stiles’ neck and bites down. “Should we --?” Sex, he means, but doesn’t know how to ask for it besides moaning encouragement when Derek’s nails bite into his skin and he drags his teeth over his adam’s apple. 

He’s nervous, so nervous. Stiles doesn’t get nervous when it comes to sex. There’s communication and wandering hands and _feeling good_ and being good at it. With Derek, he’s flustered and floundering. There’s a pleasant white noise in his brain that makes him want to just sink into Derek and let Derek take the reigns.

“Yeah,” Derek groans against Stiles’ neck, thrusting up. His hands slip down the back of Stiles’ pants and Stiles’ hips stutter forward, giving them more friction. “If you want. If that’s --”

“Yeah, yeah, fuck,” Stiles says, hands in Derek’s hair and on his face and his neck and sliding down his shirt. He can’t keep track of the ways that they’re touching. His legs slung over Derek’s, hands everywhere, all over: in Stiles’ hair, down his neck, his shoulders, his sides. Stiles’ hands on Derek’s arm, trailing over his ears, his jaw.

“This isn’t just a fuck,” Derek says, mouthing at Stiles’ neck. “I mean, for me. I have feelings for you.”

“You, what?” Stiles asks, blurry. Nothing in his brain is connecting, it can’t be, he _can’t be_. 

“That’s kind of how this works,” Derek says. “Demisexual.”

“But, Scott --”

“Scott’s the exception that proves the rule,” Derek says, with a huff, pulling back. “You know that. You would never have a purely sexual relationship with me, would you? If you were in love with me. Not like with Scott.”

“No, I couldn’t,” Stiles admits. Scott is different. Scott’s his bedrock. It doesn’t matter that Scott can’t form romantic attachment, because he still gives. He’s still everything that Stiles needs, and okay -- It’s complicated, Stiles gets where Derek’s coming from. 

Derek’s just smirking at Stiles, like he knows, and he probably does. All three of them have been scary codependent since they were teenagers, why would this be any different? It’s just a new way to express that codependence. Romantic feelings. _Reciprocated_ romantic feelings that Stiles would have never thought he would get in a million years from Derek. 

Scott is going to laugh at them so hard, and drag them both into bed when he visits over break. 

“I love you, dude,” Stiles says, sliding his hands into the short hairs behind Derek’s ears, feeling Derek’s warmth underneath him, thumbing at his pulse. The admission makes his heart swell, lodges in his throat.

“I love you, too,” Derek says, grinning up at Stiles. 

From there, they stop talking and start kissing. It’s all warm and wet, and Stiles is filled to the brim with emotions. They kiss like they argue, sharp, with too many teeth. Derek’s hands grips Stiles’ thighs as he stands. Stiles squeaks and grips him tight, lets Derek walk him across the living room and down the hall, into Derek’s bedroom. 

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Stiles says, breathing out. Derek stares down at him, stripping out of his pants before he leans forward and kisses Stiles, hands on his belt buckle. He pulls Stiles’ pants off, but leaves him in his briefs, crawling over him to kiss him again.

“How do you want to do this?” he asks, looking at Stiles carefully. 

“Face down ass up?” Stiles asks. “Me on top, you trembling underneath me as I eat you out, keeping from coming until you ask politely.”

“Sounds like you’ve thought about this,” Derek says, with a bright laugh, leaning over Stiles to grab condoms and lube, dumping them on the bed. 

“More than once,” Stiles says, dropping his voice low. 

“Scott might have mentioned that I was a subject of some of your guys’ dirty talk.”

“He _didn’t_ ,” Stiles says, mortified. They might have done that a couple of times, because Scott is an asshole and liked to torture Stiles with the imagery. Derek nods sagely, but he’s smiling, eye twinkling. “I’m going to kill him.”

“Kill him later,” Derek says, leaning in to kiss Stiles again.

“Well, I’m not going to do it _now_ ,” Stiles complains, then drags Derek in. His heart is pounding hard, brain still stuck in a state of disbelief even as Derek palms him through his briefs, and sucks hickies into his neck. They move in tandem, alternating grinding close and touching each other all over. Stiles feels warm, nearly too warm, all of nerves standing at attention of Derek. 

It’s fucking overwhelming in the best way. 

Once his neurons start firing at something akin to normal, he flips them over and climbs on top so _he_ can leave bruises on Derek’s skin, making a trail from his collar to his hips, worrying the skin and holding Derek down while he squirms. 

He pulls off Derek’s briefs and swallows his dick down in a practiced move, getting him wet and sloppy while Derek groans his name over and over. Stiles has a skilled mouth, and he brings Derek to the edge before backing off. He wants to hear Derek beg, but more importantly, he wants this to last a little bit longer. He flips Derek over and dragging his hips up, burying his tongue in him after too long. 

The noises that come out of Derek’s mouth are delicious, hands gripping the sheets as Stiles licks him open slowly. Derek’s rim flutters around his tongue, and god, Stiles could eat him out forever. It’s still worth it, even after Stiles’ jaw starts aching. It’s obviously driving Derek wild as he drives back, trying to fuck himself against Stiles’ tongue. 

“Are you going to fuck me anytime soon, or just tease me?” Derek asks, in a gruff voice, half muffled because he has his forehead pressed to the mattress. He’s panting. Stiles can see sweat gathering at the nape of his neck. 

“Can’t come like this?” Stiles asks, jokingly, reaching forward to grab the lube. 

“God, no,” Derek whines. 

Stiles is so hard, he’s throbbing, legs shaking from kneeling for so long, but he manages to focus. Barely. He presses a kiss to Derek’s ass cheek, before sinking a finger into him and another right after, scissoring him open. Derek’s body gives easily from the rimming, and he groans, rutting back against Stiles’ hand. 

“God, you’re so needy,” Stiles says, letting Derek fuck himself on his fingers like Stiles is a toy. When he slows, Stiles pushing in a third finger. This one is slower and Derek inhales sharply as it goes it. The fit is tight against Derek’s rim; he whimpers when Stiles tugs. Stiles leans over to lick at his rim more, getting Derek’s hole to relax around him. It’s pink and puffy from the stretch. Fucking _obscene_. 

“You have long fingers,” Derek huffs, as Stiles pushes in, skates over his prostate. Stiles laughs at him, fingers him harder until he’s not capable of making smartass remarks, until he’s whining for Stiles to fuck him already. 

When Stiles finally gets the condom on and slides in they both groan in unison. Stiles presses his forehead to the middle of Derek back, and grinds into him. Stiles’ dick is long, but not too thick, and Derek’s body folds for him, taking him beautifully. 

“Holy shit, you feel good,” Stiles groans into Derek, trying not to come. The silky heat of Derek’s body is overwhelming. It grips Stiles, keeps him from catching his breath. He might not last. 

“Ditto, now move,” Derek says, swiveling his hips hard and rocking back. Stiles’ hands spam on Derek’s hips, trying to get a grip on himself. 

“I thought I was topping,” he complains, before rising up on his toes and pressing Derek into the mattress with one hand. The other he uses for leverage, gripping Derek’s hip and pounding into him hard. Derek sucks in a breath and groans, fingers tangled back in the sheets, desperate noises spilling from his mouth. 

The pace is exhausting, but it’s worth it, the way Derek is so obviously wrecked. 

“Stiles, fuck, Stiles,” he chants. Just Stiles’ name on repeat, catching in his throat when Stiles manages to hit his prostate. 

It doesn’t take much longer for Stiles to feel the surge in his gut that means he’s going to come, balls tightening up. His thrusts become faster, more erratic as he screws into Derek. He barely manages to get a hand around Derek before he’s coming, stilling so he can jerk Derek off quick and fast, trying to concentrate through his own orgasm. 

When Derek comes, he collapses, taking Stiles down with him.

“What the fuck,” Stiles groans, hand trapping under Derek’s body, covered in jizz. He wiggles it out from under Derek and slips out, stripping the condom and rolling Derek over, straddling his hips. 

Derek’s eyes are shut, chest rising and falling as he pants. There’s a red blush on his cheeks, hair a mess. There’s come all over his dick and the bottom of his stomach. Stiles’ broken trail of hickies are red, pink, purple in some places. 

“You’re a mess, D,” Stiles says, fingers skating over the mess on Derek’s dick. Stiles kind of wishes they had raw dogged it, and Stiles had pulled out and came all over Derek’s skin. It would be gross, and awesome. 

“Nap first, then shower,” Derek says, peeking at Stiles just in time to see Stiles slip his jizz-covered fingers in his mouth. Derek stares. Stiles shrugs.

“I’m into come play,” Stiles says, slurping around his fingers. Derek doesn’t respond, just drags him down for a hard kiss before dragging him close and wrapping him up in his arms. They’re _cuddling_. Derek smells like sex and clean laundry and that distinctive, mouthwatering _Derek_ scent that Stiles knows he’s going to be obsessed with.

“I’m lying in the wet spot,” Stiles complains, instead of telling Derek he loves him again. Derek’s grip tightens and he rolls them so Stiles is lying on his other side, reaching over Stiles to grab at his phone. 

There’s a flash, and Stiles _knows_ it’s going to be a terrible picture. 

“What the fuck?” he asks, blinking the spots away. 

“Proof for Scott.”

“Jesus christ,” Stiles moans, grabs his phone and tilts the screen so he can see what Scott responds: A picture of his mouth open in a wide grin, and a thumbs up. 

‘ _I told him to get it in!_ ’

“Did he tell you to ‘get it in’?” Derek asks, tossing his phone on the nightstand. 

“He has been for, like, 5 years,” Stiles admits, snuggling into Derek’s chest. It’s nice, and warm. “What do you say, big guy? Wanna be my boyfriend?”

“As long as I can still sleep with Scott,” Derek says, with a laugh. Stiles bursts out laughing, popping up so he can press another hard kiss to Derek’s mouth. 

“That was going to be my stipulation,” Stiles says, laughing again. “You’re perfect.”

“Just a little,” Derek says. The way he’s looking at Stiles is making it a little hard to breathe, chest going a little funny. On the nightstand, Derek’s phone chimes with a text message.

**Scott McCall [4:23 PM]**

So... threesome? :D

**Author's Note:**

> In this fic, Derek is demisexual and is in a sexual relationship with Scott, but little romantic feelings are involved. His sexual attraction to Scott is based around their close platonic relationship. Stiles is alloromantic and in a sexual relationship with Scott. While he does have romantic feelings for Scott, it's a negotiated space where Stiles feels free to express those feelings and is also aware that they will never be reciprocated. Stiles also has romantic feelings for Derek, and Derek reciprocates them, along with sexual attraction. 
> 
> The point of this fic is not to imply that Scott's relationship with Stiles is 'less than' because there are no romantic feelings on his end, but to highlight the need Stiles feels as an alloromantic for reciprocated romantic feelings and the benefit for an open arrangement that accommodates every person's needs when it comes to sex and romance.


End file.
